In any case I would wait, I thought, until I could be tolerably certain
that all the guests of the hotel had gone down to dinner. If I knew
Monsieur Charretier, he would be among the first to feed, but I couldn't
afford to run needless risks. I lingered over the task of putting my
mistress's belongings in order, almost with pleasure, and then, once in
my own room, I took as long as I could with my own toilet. I was ready
at last, and could think of no further excuse for pottering, when
suddenly it occurred to me that I might do my hair in a demurer, less
becoming way, so that, if I should have the ill luck to encounter a
sortie of the enemy, I might still contrive to pass without being
recognized.

I pinned a clean towel round my neck, barber fashion, and pulling the
pins out of my hair, shook it down over my shoulders. But before I could
twist it up again, there came a light tap, tap, at the door.

"There!" I thought. "Some one has been sent to tell me the servants'
dinner will be over if I don't hurry. Perhaps it's too late already, and
I'm _so_ hungry!"

I bounced to the door, and threw it wide open, to find Mr. John Dane
standing in the passage, holding a small tray crowded with dishes.

"Here you are," he said, in the most matter-of-fact way, as if bringing
meals to my door had been a fixed habit with him, man and boy, for
years. "Hope I haven't spilt anything! There's such a crush in our
feeding place that I thought you'd be safer up here. So I made friends
with a dear old waiter chap, and said I wanted something nice for my
sister."